Her eyes were always moving about to places where she located the beauty that her mind mapped out all the time. Her eyes were wet from the overwhelming feeling that she would get, and if not then her mouth would be from all the explaining hoping to be understood. She could never stay still, not her mind, and absolutely not her body. She was moving round about all the time some way or the other. Her legs kept oscillating to and fro when she sat, when she stood up she would walk, her hands playing an uninvented instrument all the time, her ears filtering in the music of the rustling leaves and the chirping birds over the fighting crowd and her hair so dynamic in all its ways. And if all of these parts were not moving, you would think she is finally arid, but I could hear clearly her heart breathing in and out the ink and creating a rhythm that makes me believe that she was not arid then and neither will she ever be.